


Technologic

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Fucking Machines, I don't even know anymore, M/M, machines for fucking, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:25:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q has a side-project, a line of machines he's constantly tinkering with and designing.  Bond wants to know more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Technologic

**Author's Note:**

> Another one for the [007 kink meme](http://007kinkmeme.livejournal.com/). Not in the slightest way safe for work.

Q pokes his tongue from the corner of his lips as he doodles; it’s one of the endearing habits that Bond has come to appreciate about him.  Even so, despite heavy-handed hinting and even blatant come-ons, Q ignores him, tucks his legs beneath himself on the chair, and leans into his lines, dark strokes outlining the schematics.

“Love letters?” Bond asks wryly.

“Of a sort,” Q responds idly, and yes.  Q would love a machine, pen sonnets to its cold metal whirrs.  Bond scoffs.

“Lucky man,” Bond says, and Q glances at him over the rim of his glasses, patently unamused.

“Yes.  I am,” he says, then turns back to line the details, scrabbling notes along the margin.

“I meant your lover,” Bond clarifies, and Q sighs, closing the book.

“Are you quite finished, Mr. Bond?”  The conversation closes; Q’s expression shuttered and annoyed, Bond leaves his office and leaves Q to his design.  He wants that notebook.  Q dotes on it, turns to it with a lover’s eyes, and the way he touches the spiral binding inspires  _thoughts_  in Bond.  He wants that notebook.

He doesn’t get his chance for a while.  Q tends to tuck it into his pocket when he leaves, or Bond will see it shut tight in Q’s office, perfectly visible through the bulletproof glass and completely unreachable; curiosity digs at him, hollowing him like a canoe until all he can think of is that notebook.  It’s probably nothing, a pile of drawings of biometric handguns or pineapple grenades or whatever new thing Q is working on, but somehow Bond doubts it.  There’s pages on pages of notes, designs, drawings, but Q only brings it out when there’s a lull, only when he’s got time to burn.  It’s curious.

He supposes it’s a matter of trust when Q breaks it out when he’s on lunch with him.  Months of pestering had built up to this moment, months of coaxing and cajoling and damned near pleading, and Bond undoes it all in one smooth movement—one moment, the notebook is in Q’s hand, the other occupied with half a turkey sandwich, and the next it’s in Bond’s, heavy pasteboard cover creaking slightly as he opens it to a random page.  Q is breathlessly baleful across the table, and now Bond knows why.  He raises a brow.

“These are—?” he asks, and Q doesn’t even flush, just stares evenly, eyes sharp and wary and face closed.

“Personal.”

“—intriguing.  I knew you loved machines,” Bond begins, and Q’s face contracts, a stinging high blush zipping along the line of his cheeks.  “I didn’t know they loved you back.”

“Just,” Q says, and Bond can see the line of mortification climbing his spine to settle heavy on his shoulders.  “Give it back.  It was a mistake to bring it with me.”  Bond doesn’t respond to the silent addition:  _It was a mistake to trust you_.  He flips through the pages—some of the designs are quite elaborate, for all their cold, hard beauty, but to him the appeal of sex is its organic nature, the flex and pull of flesh, the tang of salt and sweat and more.  Anger creeps across Q’s face when he turns the book to try to orient one of the drawings; he can’t imagine a person fitting into this equation, but they must do.  There’s a dark, smudged fingerprint on the page in engine oil.  This one exists.  “Fine.  You know what, Bond?  Fine.  Keep it,” Q bites like gunfire, abandoning his sandwich in favor of shrugging on his coat.

“Is it a fetish?” Bond asks warily, still looking at the pages.  “Surely you can find someone to touch you without all this.”

“If I wanted someone to bloody touch me, I could pull someone,” Q snaps, but his movement slows.  He doesn’t reach for his bag just yet, though he’s quivering on his seat rabbit-shy.  “I don’t have the time for a relationship.  This,” he gestures to the book, where Bond is exploring the sleek lines of a machine that pulls at his gut in the way a good car does; it reminds him of his Aston Martin.  “Is easier,” Q says simply.  His eyes narrow.  “Not all of us are up for a one-time fling.  I know what I like and I know how to satisfy it without involving other people.”

“But these things can’t really satisfy you.  Not the way a real lover can,” Bond asserts.  “You can’t feel your lover’s hands on your skin or taste the desire on their mouth.”

“Is that necessary?” Q asks, and Bond wants to prove him wrong.  He licks his lips; Q’s eyes track the movement.

“Of course it’s necessary.  Anything less and you might as well be fumbling with your cock like a schoolboy trying not to get caught be the prefects,” Bond says, and Q’s slow blink is fascinating.  “It’s masturbation, then, and pure narcissism.”

“I never thought I’d live to see the day James Bond called me a narcissist,” Q says, and Bond can see the exact moment the tension leaves his frame.  Q sinks into his chair, toying with the edge of toast on his plate.  “Yes.  I suppose when you put it that way, I am a narcissist.  I enjoy making love to myself.”

“You’ve no idea how much better it is with someone else,” Bond insists.

“And you’ve no idea how fantastic it is when it’s just for you.  When it’s tailored to your needs, and it’s right  _every time_.”  Q pauses, glancing down before pinning him with piercing eyes.  “What do you prefer?  Anal?  Blowjobs?  A tight, wet hole around you, or a thick cock in your mouth?”  Bond is taken aback, too stunned to hide it.  Q grins at him, slow and promising.  “Whatever it is, I’ve got one that can do it.  I’ve got enough of them to do all of it at once.

“Do you want to try?”  And  _yes_.  The suggestion steams on his skin, heat and interest and a hunger he hadn’t know—or hadn’t acknowledged—was there roars.  _Yes_.

Q’s flat is expansive.  The gem of it’s the third floor room, gutted to make room for play; Q gives him a wary glance before pushing the door open to invite him in.  There are machines in an array of disassemble ringing the room, well-loved and gleaming.  Q offers them with a wave of his hand and Bond can’t even drag up a ghost of a smirk.  It’s all a bit overwhelming, even before he imagines each one being used—the thought makes his breath catch for a moment, the afterimage of Q on his hands and knees, hair mussed and skin flushed as he offers himself—Bond swallows hard.

“Which one will it be?” Q asks, and Bond has no idea how to order from this menu.  It must show, because Q smiles guileless and sweet, body-warm and tender as he strokes the one nearest.  “May I make a recommendation, then?”

Bond’s voice sticks in his throat the first time he tries.  “Please do,” he manages, barely a croak.

“I like,” Q says, slowly drifting between the machines, “vibrations.  Straddling something, feeling it between my legs so I can ride it; if I’m really—“ Q’s breath escapes him in a shaking rush “—playing, there are even straps for….  I like it when I can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe without the pleasure.  It crowds out my thoughts, crowds out the rest of the world until it’s glowing.  Is that something you’re interested in?” he asks.  Bond, strung out on the image Q’s presented, nods wordlessly.

“And penetration?  It’s optional, of course,” Q offers.

“Of course,” Bond manages, strangled.

“But I find it hits the right spot,” Q murmurs, expression cheeky.  “Internal, external—sometimes I’ll add the cushion,” he stops, pressing low on his belly above the erection he’s sporting; his cock twitches visibly, and Bond’s does in sympathy.  Q blinks down at his own hand and pinks prettily, fingers dragging reluctantly away.  “It’s mind-altering,” he says.  “The pressure,” he clarifies, “and the way it pushes.  I have to strap myself in then.  I’ll fall off, otherwise.”

“Will you,” is what Bond tries to say.  It doesn’t quite make it, shifting into an appreciative groan instead.

“Take your clothes off, Mr. Bond,” Q says.  Bond nearly rips his buttons as he rushes to comply.

Standing nude in the room, he watches Q drag the machine away from the wall, petting its elegant curves before ducking over to the small cupboard in the corner of the room.  “Preferred level of penetration: nubbin, slender, or full-size?” Q asks, proffering three attachments.  There are more behind, though Q nudges the door closed with his hip when he catches Bond looking.

“Nothing larger?” Bond asks, and Q blushes, shaking his head.

“Not for the first time,” he says.  Bond raises a brow but Q doesn’t waver.

“Next time, then,” Bond concedes, and Q grins.  “What’s the difference?”

“The nubbin’s good for when you’re just looking for a touch.  It’s not internal, not really—the wide base and short length keeps it from doing much more than tease.  It’s easier to ride; if you’re planning on being rowdy,” Q stops here for a half-beat, just enough to let Bond know he’s not the only one with an active imagination, “I’d recommend it.  The slender one’s enough to give you reach without stretch.  Combined with the cushion, you get pinpoint accuracy that will make you come so fast you won’t know what hit you, but when you’re looking for something more than just getting off as fast and as hard as you can, it can be a bit disappointing.

“The full-size is,” Q says, tongue darting out to touch dry lips, “a life cast.”

The arousal that hits Bond at that is like a lorry, plowing into and over him, leaving him mangled in its wake.  “That one,” he says, fingers clenching against his thighs.  “I want that one.”

“It’s larger than you might expect,” Q offers, but he’s already putting the other two back.  He returns to Bond with a tube and the attachment, breath speeding when Bond reaches to take it from him, stroking the length and breadth of it with his thumb before turning to the machine.  Q gives a shuddery sigh and drops to his knees, curls tickling against Bond’s leg as he carefully moves the panels on the seating area—Bond almost snorts at that—to slot the rubber cock in and secure it.  When he sits back on his heels, Q is eye-level with Bond’s cock; he reaches up with the tube of lubricant.  “You’ll want some semblance of preparation first.”

As if the flirting and tease weren’t enough; as if Bond wasn’t about to fuck himself on Q’s vibrating cock-by-proxy.  He rolls his eyes, swinging a leg over to lower himself, carefully keeping the dildo in front.  The lube makes thick, wet sounds as he smoothes it over the rubber, and Q makes soft, interested noises by his side.  When it’s slick enough, Bond lifts himself over it and eases it in, and Christ.  It’s thick enough.  His fingers curl along the sides of the machine as he braces himself.

“Relax,”  Q whispers, voice hoarse and shattered.  Bond breathes deep and lets himself drop a few more inches.  “God, you’re so impatient.  You really want it, huh?”

Bond moans then, tipping his head back as the last bit sheathes itself; arse flush against the machine he thinks about the way it fills him, just long enough that his belly twists around the sparks forming inside.  There’s a lump like a golf ball pressing against his perineum that makes his vision shimmer when he presses himself against it, and Q is snapping something into place before him, guiding with slow hands until he leans his body weight against the arm and it presses just there, just right.  Each movement shifts which part of the three-point assault is worse; his cock is waving in the hollow beneath the cushion, untouched and twitching as the machine milks him mercilessly—it’s not even on yet, and Bond can’t catch his breath.

“Straps?” Q asks, his fingers a contact point that’s stable and incendiary against his thigh.  Bond breathes, overheated, and shakes his head.  If he needs…the thought of not being able to escape makes him throb with a feeling like drowning.  He pictures Q struggling on the machine, legs spread and tied, arse plugged with a replica of his own cock, and the gasping, dragging breath he pulls sounds more like a sob.  “Are you okay?” Q asks gently.

“Gonna come,” Bond scrapes out, tense and taut and gruff.

“Yes,” Q says softly, touching Bond’s leaping abdomen with reverent fingers.  “You are.”

“How do you—?”  Bond can’t finish, mouth open but voice gone as Q’s nimble fingers turn on the vibrations.

“These buttons here,” Q says, but that’s not what Bond meant at all; that’s not what he wants.  He wants to watch Q do this, wants to watch him glut himself, blind himself on overwhelming pleasure, wants to watch him shake and spread apart until Bond can piece him back together, wants to see Q come and come and come again, until there’s nothing left inside and Bond can crawl into this beautiful, _beautiful_  genius whose mind and hands have wrought this moment.  He spasms—there’s no other word for it—and comes, but while he’s boneless and weak, the machine— _Oh_ , the machine.

It’s too much, too bright-painful-hot-sharp as it shows no mercy, has no empathy, and Q doesn’t, either, opening his slacks to offer his cock to Bond in invitation that Bond can’t help but accept.  Q sighs as he curls a palm around one slender hip and draws him close.  Q throbs in his mouth and scratches gently at his scalp in approval.  Bond can taste the want on his skin, the smears where he’s been leaking, hot and hard and ready for this, patient and oh, so familiar with the feeling like electricity nipping at the base of Bond’s spine, biting at the back of his skull and burning everywhere.  He is fucking Q’s machine in the same room, same place, same position as—voyeuristic, sympathetic sensation rips through him like a starburst as the machine rips another orgasm from him and he’s clawing, pushing, struggling away because he can’t.  He can’t; oh God, another one will kill him.  On the ground, listening to the thing buzzing away, Bond curls his legs around his spent cock and coddles it, promises it he will think before he consents again, and the wet spatter of Q’s come hits his ribs like a .22 caliber round.  Q drops, lands on his knees and leans over, his mouth on Bond’s like a balm, smooth-wet and calming.

“Bond,” Q is saying against his mouth, an endless soft stream of his name and thanks.  “You are exquisite.”  Bond lies on the ground passive, still shuddering and jerking with aftershocks as Q pets him through the worst of it.  “Oh, thank you.”

“You win,” Bond tells him, still blinking past the sparks that swim lazily around his field of vision.  “That was….”

Q grins.  “I rather think we both won.  Though you won twice,” he adds wryly, brushing at Bond’s hypersensitive skin to drag through the mess there.

“Then you have some catching up to do.”


End file.
